


I Am The Grey In The Ghost

by scrapbullet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azazel, in all his demonic presence and majesty, had told a childish Blackwood many things upon first meeting; whispered black and ominous secrets into his ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am The Grey In The Ghost

At the heart of it all, dark magic exists.

Shall we start at the beginning?

As a child, Henry Blackwood had thought magic to be merely flights of childish fancy; smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand. In the world of Man that was, all magic was simple thus; a dulling of the senses and fantastical wonderment of an event or happenstance that is merely the machinations of a fraud. No, magic does not exist, and rightly so.

That is, until he was visited by Azazel.

Azazel, in all his demonic presence and majesty, had told a childish Blackwood many things upon first meeting; whispered black and ominous secrets into his ears. For years his mother had assumed he'd given in to frivolous whimsy and acquired an imaginary friend, and for a time it was as it appeared. He was told, however, upon the day of his birth -- aged eight, and still maintaining the vulnerable softness of childhood -- that such fanciful notions were not for someone of his birth. Indeed, he must desist at once.

Azazel did not desist.

Oh, at first the demon with the lurid yellow eyes did frighten him, with all his tales of Hellish grandeur and torture most violent but after a time the seeds of corruption began to grow. Night after night Azazel would creep into the very recesses of Henry's mind, corrupting the delicate synapses and spreading his evil from within. He whispered ideas of a sinister plan, of a pathway that would lead to a world ensconced in damnation and, as the seasons passed in a flurry of snow and sun and rain, Henry began to anticipate each and every sojourn, as his mortal soul verily writhed in the dark filth of his own making.

When Blackwood turned thirteen, a boy came to live with them. At eleven Nicholas Coward was a quiet child who looked up at him with adoration in his dark eyes, whether Henry entertained him or not. Indeed, whether he pushed at the boy or invited him for silent games in his father's study, it mattered little, for Nicholas followed him around like a lost puppy. Verily, it was encouraged. "He is your kin," he was told, "but not in blood." And that was that.

That very night, Azazel came to him, his hands bathed in blood.

 _"Nicholas is special,"_ Azazel had intoned, _"Nicholas has a gift. Not a gift from the hands of God, but from the blood in my own veins."_

A wave of envy surged, uninvited. Henry said nothing, knuckles clenched tight. Is he not worthy, then, for such a gift? Is he to be looked over once again?

Azazel smiled then, and patted his head with a mockery of affection. _"Worry not, Henry... the child is merely a tool; a means to an end. You, my dear boy, are my mastermind. My General."_

Nevertheless, the jealousy within Henry grew and manifested itself only days later, whereupon the treatment of Nicholas became decidedly deadly. He locked Nicholas in the cellar for hours in the guise of a punishment -- manipulated into spilling and tracking ink on the sultry carpets; the maids were most distraught -- whilst he listened to the tortured cries within, until finally he took pity on the rats that had been forced to share such company.

The door had creaked as it opened, stiff from disuse.

The boy looked at him then, eyes shining with unshed tears before dropping to his knees in unspoken terror. "I have learnt the lesson you have taught me," he murmured, pressing his forehead to Henry's shoes, "Forgive me."

In all actuality it had been the first nuance of demonic ability that had caused the inkwell to tip and spill, though Henry told Nicholas nothing of the sort.

"I forgive you," Henry said, "though in future you must take care."

Nicholas stilled, cheeks flushed. He kissed each shoe with reverence, basking in the knowledge that Henry -- though still undoubtedly a child in body – was Master in all things. He was forgiven, and that was all that mattered.

Azazel came to Henry once more after that, and looked upon him with pride.

*

They existed like this for quite some time; a Lord and his subordinate. They grew, from boys to men, with Henry delicately cultivating the dark inclinations that Nicholas harboured within. And still Nicholas remained oblivious to the strength that resided within his very veins; Henry's rope of manipulation having twisted the man within and pulled taut the element of truth, turned it to his favour. To all outward appearances, it was Henry that contained the magnificent power of black magic; a lie so intricately weaved to keep Nicholas in his grasp.

Every season that passed was one step closer to his goal, as he seamlessly slid his assets into position so as to create the best outcome. The Order was as welcome a guise as any; a decaying organization full of old men blind to all but their own petty disputes, too willing to bow down to the power that Henry so blatantly exhibited. They encountered no resistance. Indeed, they all but fell like flies in the wake of such brilliance.

Oh, Holmes and his dog interfered, but it was expected, a mere certainty. Their involvement was but another stepping stone on the pathway to greatness; their coming demise to be a fitting lesson.

It went, as one would say, according to plan.

*

There was no harness to aid him, nor a toxin in his veins. But there was the stark stench of sulphur within the air, and the mawkish glint of yellow eyes within a fearful yet fascinated crowd; yellow eyes that glistened with wicked intent. Beyond him was Nicholas, mouth drawn down into a line of stoic resolve.

Death is just another adventure. Or so Blackwood thought, seconds before the noose tightened and his world ended.

If only for a moment.


End file.
